


Postcard

by carriecmoney



Series: Indirection [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriecmoney/pseuds/carriecmoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hajime's been followed around campus by a series of assholes all semester. It would be stupid as hell if they were all the same person.</p><p>Inspired by the tumblr prompt "I take my grades very seriously and you’re the lazy asshole who asks a ton of off-topic questions to distract the professor and I might be a foot shorter than you but I swear to god I’ll fight you AU". Companion to "Purcell".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcard

**Author's Note:**

> {A/N: This got out of hand and I am ashamed. EDIT: I did write the Tooru part and called it [Purcell](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4968445). Feel free to read them in any order you would like. [art for this](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/post/131062063011/i-wrote-a-double-pov-iwaoi-college-au-twoshot-and) [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney) [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com) [the post I pulled the prompt from](http://maplerosekisses.tumblr.com/post/123602979673)}

When Hajime walked into his first Romantic Literature lecture of the semester and saw who was taking up three rickety desks in the middle of the room, he almost spun around and ran the fuck out of there. But there were two girls coming in behind him blocking his exit, and the melodramatic waste of space had already seen him. Hajime ignored his floppy wave and shouldered to the back of the room, taking a desk with no neighbors and no tousled brown hair impeding his view of the chalkboard. Then he plopped his face on the wood and moaned.

That _asshole_ had been in his Japanese class last semester, the only other native speaker in that iteration of 3001, which ended up almost being 3000.5 from how often he derailed their scatterbrained professor with questions about lolita fashion labels and how her children were doing in soccer and what lion meat tasted like until Hajime wanted to pull his pretty hair out. Then the asshole would turn on _him_ with some offhanded comment about a light novel series Hajime detested, and, well, that just couldn’t go by unnoticed, so the rest of class would be taken up by them arguing while the poor white people scrambled to take notes on Hajime’s bad language. And the asshole talked over the old un-subbed monster movies that Hajime had grown up on. And couldn’t talk to a girl – or to anyone – without flirting. And never gave back that pen he borrowed the first week of the semester.

Hajime didn’t like him.

Yet here the asshole was, twisting his fingers in the chain around his neck as he chatted up three girls at once, hair just as stupid as before Christmas, long legs propped in the seat before him and elbows on the desk behind. Hajime scowled at the dirty chalkboard, already hating this semester. And he had (foolishly) thought that since his 3002 class was asshole-free, he was in the clear. He should’ve known he wasn’t that lucky.

The professor came in then, a cloud of unstapled syllabi and apologies about a fussy photocopier. The class settled back from the chattering as he counted out pages and handed them out; even the asshole took his boots off his commandeered footstool to sit upright and read the attendance policy with a straight face. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad when an A wasn’t giftwrapped for him.

Ten minutes in, the asshole raised his hand. “Do we need to buy the books if we already have a girlfriend?” The professor huffed and launched into a speech about romance versus the Romantics while the asshole sat back in his seat and crossed his arms behind his head, smirking. Hajime buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Hajime had been living with the same guy for going on two years now. They had been quick friends through their early core engineering classes, and after agreeing that they were the only sane ones on campus, decided to room together from there on out, even when Daichi signed up to be a residence assistant. Daichi was a good gym partner, too.

They were a week and a half into the spring semester and wrapping up a Wednesday afternoon weight room session. Hajime toweled off his sweaty hair as Daichi put their weights back and stretched. “When does your intramural season start?” Hajime asked. Daichi frowned, eyebrows furrowed.

“I think it’s next week? It’s pretty soon.” He put the last weight away and rubbed his palms on his shorts. “Why, you wanna join the team this time?”

Hajime snorted. “We’ve got enough sand in the room from your sorry ass, no thanks.” Daichi chuckled. Hajime slung his drawstring bag over his shoulder and led the way up the stairs to the exit. “Just wanted to know when to expect you to start bitching about lazy teammates, is all.” Daichi groaned, and Hajime grinned.

“At least that kid of yours shows up to practice,” Daichi sighed. “He _is_ planning on coming back to me this season, right?”

“I think you would have to handcuff Tobio to his bed to keep him away from a volleyball court.” Daichi laughed as they crested the staircase and pushed out of the card gate by the front desk. The attendant minding it looked up at Daichi’s laughter, pen caught in his teeth. Hajime pretended not to notice as his eyes widened at them, or how the back of Daichi’s neck flushed dark red as the other two made eye contact for a hot second before jerking away. They pushed on past without a comment, but Hajime knew the attendant was watching Daichi leave like he always did.

“Dude, you need to talk to him already,” Hajime said when they were out of earshot.

Daichi let out a strangled whine, knuckles white around the strap of his duffel bag. “But that would be _weird_ – I mean, who flirts with the gym desk guy?” He rubbed a hand down his face. “He probably get its all the time.” They shoved through the double airlock doors into the biting January cold, sharp on Hajime’s sweaty skin. “I bet he’s not even into dudes,” he moaned.

“Have you _seen_ the way he stares at your ass?” Daichi moaned louder as they walked to the bus stop outside the rec center. “I bet he’s chewed up all their pens holding himself back from vaulting over that desk.”

Daichi buried his face in his hands, ears red from the cold. “ _Stop it_.” Hajime patted his shoulder and let it drop.

* * *

Now that Hajime was deep in his junior year, classes flew by, all his major-specific classes fascinating and hardcore difficult, his last few free electives a necessary annoyance (the asshole in his Romantic Literature class notwithstanding). Still, he could remember what being a freshman was like.

Tobio fell into the chair across from his at the campus Starbucks that Saturday afternoon, shedding textbooks and worksheets and disgruntled Japanese. Hajime watched with one eyebrow raised over his Americano as Tobio flopped back in the chair, long hair drifting with gravity out of his face. “Iwaizumi-san, kill me now.”

“We’re not in Japan anymore, Tobio, you can call me Hajime.” Tobio flapped a weak hand at their old argument, ripping his scarf off his neck. “Rough week?”

“They never warn you that American universities are just as bad as the ones back at home.” He sat forward, hands snarling n his hair. “I want a refund.”

Hajime snorted. “It can’t be _that_ bad. What class is it?”

“All of them.” Tobio hit around his scattered papers blindly and pulled one out to squint at it. “Ugh, but physics is _definitely_ the worst.”

Hajime cocked his head, reaching for the syllabus in his hand. “Why? I thought I made sure you got a good professor.”

Tobio shrugged. “The professor’s fine, but my TA is a right bitch.” Tobio scratched his head. “He kicked some kid out for _talking_ last recitation.”

Hajime paused in the middle of flipping through the syllabus. “No shit.” Tobio shook his head, lips pressed together. “TAs can _do_ that?”

“Apparently. _And_ he grades homework for real, not just completion, _and_ he assigns extra stuff on top of the problems from the professor!” He shook his hair out, flipping his overlong bangs out of his eyes. “Honestly, where does he find the _time_?”

“An alternate dimension in the TA lounge, maybe.” Hajime tossed the syllabus back in the paper mess. “So does that mean you won’t have time for Daichi’s volleyball team, then?”

Tobio sat up shock straight; Hajime hid a smile behind his espresso. “Of course I will! Why would you even _say_ that?”

Hajime chewed on the opening of his coffee lid to keep his grin in check. “Good, I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it. He’s always losing people in the spring.” Hajime put his coffee down and extracted his old physics textbook from Tobio’s pile. “Go get yourself something while I refresh my memory, okay? One TA’s not gonna beat us.” Tobio ducked his head in a nod as he fished for his wallet and joined the line for the harassed baristas.

* * *

There were two reasons why Hajime and Daichi were good roommates – they both knew when to shut up, and they both liked to cook. When they didn’t have late night tae kwon do at the rec center or any other evening occupation that tended to spring up on a college campus, they could be found in their dorm’s kitchen, apartment door open, making something with enough extra for any of Daichi’s floor to wander in and get fed. There were nights when there were no takers and Hajime had cold leftovers for breakfast, but usually a room or two would drop in for conversation and a better free meal than Papa John’s.

Today was roasted chicken and their two most common guests, one half of the other Japanese room on the floor. They played too much Starcraft and were chemical engineering majors, but Hajime wouldn’t hold it against them if they would talk to him in Japanese after a day of headachy English. Daichi’s homegrown Japanese may have skyrocketed since they moved in together, but it was still refreshing to talk to other native speakers.

“Why does your other side never show up?” Daichi asked them from the stove where he was sautéing vegetables. “I really need their fire safety forms.”

Issei snorted, mouth full of chicken. “Good luck, neither of them are ever there.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “One of them basically lives in the library, and who the hell knows what Kyou does with his life.” He raised an eyebrow at his roommate. “I don’t even know what _major_ he is.”

Takahiro shrugged back. “Probably something crazy. He’s wild. Like, I woudn’t be surprised to find out his mom was a wolf.”

“He can’t be _that_ bad,” Hajime said from across the room, laptop balanced on his knees with tomorrow’s reading for his Romantic Literature class open on it. Issei and Takahiro exchanged a look that made Hajime raise an eyebrow.

Daichi frowned over his shoulder. “Is he the one with the gerbils?” Takahiro inspected his nails; Issei shoved chicken in his mouth. Hajime bit his cheek and looked away. Daichi hung his head and sighed. “You’re right, I don’t what to know.”

“Better gerbils than girls,” Takahiro grumbled. “I don’t think I’ve seen Oi at home except when he was ‘entertaining’,” he said with air quotes and a gag. “Rub it in, why don’t ya?”

“Guy works too hard,” Issei said. “Pretty sure I’ve never seen him actually _sleeping_ in that bed. I’d be worried about him if he wasn’t such a bitch about it.”

Hajime crossed his arms. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Oh, it absolutely is not.” Takahiro shrugged. “But what can we do? We’re his roommates, not his parents.”

Daichi turned off the stove and dumped the contents of his frying pan on a plate, setting it in the middle of the table as he sat down. Issei attacked the carrots and asparagus while Daichi smiled. “Well, next time you catch either of them, tell them I need their forms by the end of the week.” He grinned. ‘You losers ready to get your asses handed to you on the court?”

The table launched into a heated discussion about intramural sand volleyball. Hajime kicked up his feet on the coffee table and lost himself in mindless chatter and Bryon versus Blake.

* * *

Five weeks into the semester, that asshole in Hajime’s Romantic Literature class was still acting a fool, and he had about had it with his stupid hair and his stupid antics. So far he had derailed the class (about _1820s British romantic poetry_ ) with pineapples, the plausibility of causing harm with a fork, last night’s episode of _Scandal_ , how to get animal fur out of the professor’s cashmere sweater, the weather, and other senseless topics Hajime was too smart to pay attention to. Hajime had learned after last semester’s light novel debacle not to rise to bait, but, _oh_ , was it tempting when he started in on how useless calculus three was in real life.

Now, they were reading _Frankenstein_ , which Hajime had read in his middle school monster phase, but had never taken the time to dissect under the microscope of a discussion-based class environment. It read different when he wasn’t eleven, barely English-literate, and bored to tears. Now, he actually liked it.

They were going over it in four chapter increments, and on this Thursday were on the second leg. Their professor was a fervent believer in class discussion, so was sitting on top of a turned-around desk at front and watching the conversation bounce around like a game of Pong.

“I just don’t like Victor,” a curly-haired girl up the column from Hajime said to a few laughs from the class. “I mean, there’s scientific curiosity, and then there’s just being a dick. I mean, what kind of jerk lets their _sister_ take the fall for their brother’s murder? That’s just wrong.”

“It’s not always that easy,” the asshole piped up, his usual cheery disposition only a thin veneer. Hajime leant forward on his desk, eyebrows furrowed, staring at the flash of ear and a cheek. “Just because you know you should doesn’t mean it makes it an easy choice.” He tossed his copy of the book on his desk with a huff. “I mean, he _is_ totally a dick, but that’s beside the point. It’s hard to think, when you’re backed against a wall like that.”

“Oh? And have you been there before, then?” The class turned, and – shit, Hajime had said that out loud, huh. The asshole smirked, honest-to-God _smirked_ , eyes lowered and everything. Hajime scowled.

“And you haven’t?” The asshole rapped his knuckle on his hardcover (why did he have a hardcover? The ones supplied by the campus bookstore were used paperback). “It works for the novel, holds to the ‘who is the monster and who is the man?’ theme Shelley’s got, sure, but in real life Vickie here would be annoying as heck.”

Hajime propped his chin on his hand, biting his lip. “Fancy that.”

The asshole rolled his eyes with a huff, turning in his seat to fold a long leg up against the crossbar to better face Hajime. “Oh, get off that high horse of yours, we can’t all be perfect. Go on, tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing there.”

“I don’t know, I’m not an alchemist with a death wish, I’m not insane enough to bring someone back to life. But I would take responsibility if it worked.” He grunted low in his throat. “Really, I’d punch this guy if I could. I mean the writing’s fine, but wishy-washy pansies like this priss make me nauseous.”

The asshole was five rows up and a column over from Hajime, but he could still feel the fire from his off-model intensity like he was a foot away. The veneer from just a moment ago was sanded away, leaving behind a twitch above his eye and a new smile, lopsided and bitter, all anger and no flirt. Hajime gripped his elbows. “You can’t solve everything with violence, Iwa-chan,” he purred, the old nickname from Japanese class zinging through Hajime like direct current. He jerked back, lip curling; a polite cough from the front of the room threw him out of the cinnamon pool of the asshole’s face. The professor twirled two fingers in the air, fighting a smile.

“Maybe so the rest of us can understand, boys?” Hajime blinked as he reflected – when had they switched languages? Somewhere before the nickname, to be sure. He crossed his arms tighter and slid down in his seat as the asshole laughed it off, slipping back to his usual self as the strange tension melted back to talking about the symbolism of the edge of the forest. Hajime watched the shaved underside of the back of the asshole’s head for the rest of class, chewing on his tongue, wondering if he was truly back to usual with each easy laugh.

Maybe he liked that flash of intensity more.

* * *

Hajime came back from doing his laundry (and some dick’s who took the last washer and Hajime had to rotate his first for him to get his own done before midnight) the week after Valentine’s Day to find Tobio camped out at their kitchen table. He didn’t flinch at his entry, but Daichi looked up from the stove and waved. Hajime frowned. “You guys are back early. What happened to practice?” Tobio flopped face-first on his textbook as Daichi winced. Hajime raised an eyebrow, dropping his laundry hamper on the coffee table and sitting on the cardboard couch to fold it up. “Problems?”

“Takahiro’s team has a new guy in charge who took over the court before we got there and wouldn’t share,” Daichi explained, waving his spatula around. Tobio covered his head with his arms. “It was easier to call it off until tomorrow than search for another spot on the spot.” Tobio mumbled something into his book, hidden by hair and arms. Daichi tilted his head at him. “What was that?”

Tobio lifted his face to rest his chin on his book, scowling at the opposite wall. “It’s my TA. The bitchy hardass one.”

Hajime stared. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

Tobio messed up his hair even more, uneven tangles sticking in all directions. “I wish. No one else would have that stupid hair, though.” He yanked on his own stupid haircut. “Now he’s a _setter_ and he’s _really good_ and I hate him _so much_.” Daichi patted his head as he set a grilled cheese in front of him. Tobio ate blindly, still sulking. “And I told my roommate he could bring his awful friends over to play Mario Party while I was gone so I can’t even go home.” He ripped off half the sandwich in one bite. “’ish sucksh.”

Daichi sprayed more Pam in the frying pan and put another sandwich on. “Is that the same awful friend who won’t join my team?” Tobio nodded, teeth grinding. “How are you supposed to wear him down if you avoid him?”

“You try dealing with him for more than a few seconds sometimes.” He tore into the second half of his sandwich. “No clue how Yamaguchi-san stands it at all.”

“He can’t be _that_ bad,” Daichi said in his eternal optimism. Tobio’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll walk you home tonight, though, see if I can’t talk him around. We’ll need all the help we can get if we’re gonna scrimmage them next week.”

Tobio shoved off the table, eyes wide. “ _No._ ”

“It was Takahiro’s proposed apology for usurping our practice time. Sounded like a good idea to me.” Tobio’s hands twitched around his sandwich. Daichi winked at Hajime. “You’re welcome to come watch, if you want.”

Hajime grabbed an armful of folded clothes to dump them in his too-small dresser to get wrinkled later. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

Well, he didn’t miss it, because the scrimmage never happened.

Their plans for next Saturday were ruined by a cold front blowing in, bringing below-freezing temperatures and sleety rain that doused campus in dead brown and gray. A rapidfire text chain between Daichi and Takahiro tried to move the game inside, but when Daichi and Hajime got to the gym to stake claim on a court, they found a three-on-three basketball tournament taking up all available space for the day. They called it off until the weather was better, but Daichi needed to hit something now, and Hajime was always up for contact sports. Hajime has dressed prepared for this eventuality, so they grabbed a free corner of one of the padded classrooms that lined the gym and beat the shit out of each other for a good while.

The cheeky front desk attendant hadn’t been there when they came in, but he was there when they left, sweaty and bruised and all the happier for it. The attendant and the pen in his teeth were talking to a long and lean someone, leaning on the counter to chat over it, and this time, Hajime locked up instead of Daichi. Daichi frowned when he stopped talking mid-sentence; Hajime looked away before he could follow his eyes to _that asshole_ lounging like he owned the five-story rec center – or before that asshole noticed him staring.

“Hajime? You okay?” Daichi asked as they pushed through the gate lock.

“Fine,” he snapped, eyes on the tile as he stormed down the long entryway to the front door, shrugging on his jacket as he went. Daichi hopped to follow, confusion radiating, but Hajime didn’t feel like explaining his asshole-induced mood swing right then.

He glanced over his shoulder at the door to make sure Daichi was keeping up. Even from a hundred meters away, he could feel that asshole watching him go, that intense flash of a frown on his face.

Hajime shouldered the door open and stomped through the grass to the bus stop.

* * *

Hajime wasn’t quite sure how that thirty second not-interaction changed things, but at Tuesday’s Romantic Literature class, he actually _saw_ the asshole’s expression shift when he walked into the room, from his snake-honey smile to his heavy not-quite-glare. _Uh, what?_ Hajime frowned back as he passed to his seat, but ignored him after that as he slid into his desk and bent over to dig his copy of _Frankenstein_ out of his backpack (they were almost done with it, finally).

When he sat back up, the asshole had moved from his desk to the empty one in front of Hajime, feet in the seat and ass on the desk. Hajime almost jumped out of his skin with a small yelp, but the asshole didn’t laugh. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” he hissed in Japanese. Hajime blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, I knew you were an uppity jerk, but I didn’t think you were cruel.” Hajime’s head cartwheeled between hot aggression and sick bemusement. The asshole’s mouth twisted. “I thought the arrogant Mr. Darcy thing was just a front, but here you are, huh?”

Hajime’s jaw worked as he scratched his neck. “Look, I know we speak the same languages, but I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. And who the hell is Mr. Darcy?”

The asshole drummed his fingers on his knee, staring him down. Was that cinnamon scent coming from him or from their classmate’s steaming Starbucks cup? “Suga said you’ve been getting in the way of his love life,” he snapped at last. Hajime tossed up his hands.

“Okay, who the _fuck_ is Suga? How am I getting in the way of someone I don’t even _know?_ ” The asshole rolled his eyes, huffing in a distinctly unattractive manner.

“Uh, don’t be _stupid_ , I know you’re not.” When Hajime just spread his hands with a sneer, the asshole pursed his lips. “Grey hair? Works at the CRC? Nice smile, better butt?”

Hajime ignored the butt comment. “Wait… _you_ know _that_ guy?”

“ _Yeah_ , and _exactly_ the number of times you’ve cockblocked him with that friend of yours.” The asshole glared at him more, but the knife edge had dulled to a pout. “You didn’t know his name?”

“Of fucking course not, I don’t even remember _yours_.” A beat. “No offense.” Hajime scratched his nose, reconsidering the pen-biting interactions between his roommate and this Suga guy. “It’s not… Daichi’s just an idiot, I never…” He sat back, crossing his arms, staring at the asshole’s long fingers laced between his knees. “Huh.”

“‘Huh’, huh?” Hajime’s glare snapped up, and the asshole grinned, cheeky and smarmy and _real_. The professor wandered into class behind his back; Hajime jerked up his chin in that direction. The asshole turned to see and sighed. “I guess you win this time.”

Hajime failed to rein in his smile. “Were you keeping a tally?”

“ _No!_ ” the asshole lied. Hajime chuckled as he hopped off the desk, pouting. “You’re such a dick.”

“Takes one to know one.” He flicked out a mock salute. “Next time I’ll make Daichi talk to him, just for you.”

The asshole opened his mouth to retaliate, but the professor called for attention at the front, and he had no choice but to flounce back to his desk, leaving Hajime with the last word. Hajime smirked, but when the class discussion set in, he pulled out his phone and googled Mr. Darcy under his desk.

* * *

“I did it.” Hajime looked up from his laptop at Daichi’s entrance declaration, taking an earbud out and pausing the movie as Daichi crossed the room in a daze, falling on the couch next to him. “I made my move.”

“About damn time.” Hajime took a pull of his second beer. “How did he take it?”

“Well. Uh.” Daichi tore off his hat to scratch behind his ear. “I didn’t actually make a move to his _face_.” Hajime stared at him over his beer bottle. “He wasn’t there! But when I asked the other guy when he was scheduled next, well, they couldn’t say, so I just left the thing I got for him with my number and they said they’d-” Daichi clammed up as the insanity of what he had done caught up to him, and Hajime bit down on the glass mouth of his beer.

“You got him a _present?_ ” Daichi buried his face in the hat still in his hands. “What the hell did you get him?”

“It was funny when I bought it,” Daichi moaned, “but I bet it’s just _weird_.” Hajime waited, holding back his laugh until Daichi answered, dejected, “I got him a box of pens.”

Hajime lost it, thumping the beer down on the table hard enough to slosh out, curling around himself as he had his first good laugh of the semester. Daichi punched his shoulder, but he was grinning through his red face. “Well! He was always chewing them up, when, y’know, he…”

“He was staring at your ass?” Hajime wiped his eyes, shoulders shaking, stomach sore. “You’re a real romantic, Sawamura-san.”

“Yeah. Well.” He crossed his arms tight, shoulders hunched, and glared at Hajime’s computer screen. “ _You’re_ the one watching a period chick flick.”

Hajime slapped the laptop shut. “It- it’s for a class!”

Daichi propped his dirty sneakers on the coffee table, slouching down to stare at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He picked at his sleeve. “How long do you think it’ll take him to get back to me?”

“Probably not for a day or two, if he’s not on shift.” Daichi moaned, and Hajime laughed. “Your own damn fault for taking so long.”

“I _know_.” There was a moment of quiet, Daichi wallowing, Hajime spinning his removed earbud around. He was finally getting to an interesting part of the movie – as interesting as it got with a bunch of white people talking all the time, at least. He had even tracked down a version with Japanese subs so he didn’t miss anything.

Daichi rolled his head on the back of the couch to look at Hajime. “Wanna finish watching that movie?” Hajime shrugged. Daichi smiled. “Look, if you knew how many chick flicks my mom made me watch growing up, you wouldn’t care, either. Come on, I wanna remember there are worse people out there at this than me.” He chuckled and opened his computer back up, unplugging his earbuds and turning the volume up before starting from the beginning.

* * *

At the next Romantic Literature class, Hajime dropped a “Happy now?” as he passed by the asshole’s desk on the way to his own. Asshole blinked up, then excused himself from the girls he was always chatting up to follow Hajime to his perch from before, long legs graceful as he climbed over a desk to sit backwards again. Hajime crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at him. The asshole grinned back, the cat who caught the canary. Hajime didn’t like that he liked this evil side of him more than the obnoxious flirt.

“Gotta hand it to you, you’re efficient,” he said, slipping into Japanese like his tight leather jacket. “I thought I was the only one who could get someone a date that fast.”

Hajime shrugged. “I just gave him a kick in the ass, is all.” He smiled. “I can’t believe that pen thing worked.”

“You kidding? That’s right up Suga’s alley.” He narrowed his eyes. “Was that your idea?”

“Oh _hell_ no, that was all Daichi. I would’ve just talked to the guy.”

“Uh-huh.” The asshole leant in, elbows on his knees, and he _definitely_ smelled like cinnamon. “Is that so?”

Hajime tilted his head, looking over the asshole’s face – tanned, spotless, eyes the same exact color as his hair on a long neck on a long body. Hajime could respect that, even though he was annoying as a baby on a plane, he was attractive enough for most people to forget that character flaw. Hajime just scowled. “I watched your movie.” The asshole’s brow furrowed, long fingers lacing together. “So I’m your Mr. Darcy, huh?” He paled, cinnamon eyes blowing wide. “Who does that make you, then?”

The asshole looked down and away, rubbing the back of his flushed neck. “Uh-”

“Sorry!” The professor dropped his armload of graded essays on the front desk, hair everywhere and glasses crooked. “Sorry, the copier is a nightmare device, I swear!” The class laughed, and one smartass asked if he tried turning off and on again. The asshole slithered back to his seat in the commotion without answering Hajime’s question, but Hajime didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it, anyway.

* * *

“He’s picking on me.” Tobio frowned at his homework, green pen slashes all across it. “He doesn’t grade anyone else in the class like this, I know it.”

“Let me see.” Hajime took the stapled notebook paper from him and looked it over. There were a lot of marks on it, but when Hajime paid attention, few of them were actual reductions. Mostly, they were hand drawn emojis and sarcasm. He looked up at Tobio. “You got a ninety-one on this.”

“ _Exactly!_ ” Tobio curled a fist and slammed it on the lid of his Starbucks. “Well, I _should’ve_ gotten a ninety-four, but ever since that _jerk_ found out we’re in the same volleyball league, he’s gone out of his way to pull shit like this. It’s _despicable_.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow, handing it back. “You could bring it up with the professor, it’s a grading discrepancy.”

Tobio’s eyes narrowed to slits as he took his homework, frowning. “That’s letting him win. I can’t do that and live with myself.” He slurped at his green tea latte like it was his evil TA’s blood. “I’m going to beat this asshole. If not at this, then _definitely_ at volleyball.”

“Well I can’t do anything about that one, so let’s work on what I can help with.” Tobio nodded once with a _hmph_ and opened his book up, Hajime listening to him explain the current theory as he thought. Goading like this might be an embarrassingly immature move on the TA’s part, but in the months Hajime had been watching out for Tobio on behalf of their family friend status, he had yet to see him this motivated for a class. He kept his mouth shut about that, though, and just helped Tobio with his homework.

* * *

Daichi and Suga (Hajime still didn’t know whether that was a first or a last name, or even a name at all) hit it off like a house on fire. March was barely born before Suga was spending evenings getting fed by Daichi during his duty hours, his easy laughter drawing in the floor students as much as the food smells did. Hajime didn’t know what he expected from this guy when he heard more than a hello from him, but he was surprised how much he liked what came out.

“You got spring break plans, Hajime?” Suga asked one evening when it was Hajime’s turn to cook.

Hajime shook his head. “My co-op asked me to cover their spring semester guy, and I don’t really feel like going anywhere else.”

“Eh? That’s so boring!” Suga waggled his eyebrows at Daichi next to him at the table. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ staying on campus, too.”

Daichi smiled. “My mom wants me back home for more than a Saturday, although we might go down to the beach if she gets out of duty for long enough.” He shrugged. “Guess it’s not much better.”

Suga moaned, sprawling across the table with a dramatic flair. “Why is my new boyfriend so _lame_?” Daichi flushed apple-red like he always did when the word ‘boyfriend’ came out of Suga’s mouth, and Hajime turned back to the stove to hide his smile. “We’re doing something _fun_ this summer, okay?”

“Yeah, uh, okay, sounds great.” Daichi coughed to clear his throat of any more voice croaks. “Can’t wait.”

They talked about Suga’s upcoming Chicago trip for a while until Hajime’s stir fry was ready and, on cue, Takahiro and Issei stumbled in for it.

“Who’s ready to lose tomorrow?” Takahiro announced with a grin. Daichi frowned.

“It won’t be that easy, smartass.” Daichi smiled behind his orange juice. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Good luck, man, but I haven’t been in this good of shape since high school, Oikawa is a slave driver. Never should have mentioned volleyball when he was home,” Issei said, throwing a glare at Takahiro as they sat down at the table with Daichi and Suga. Takahiro winced.

“How was I supposed to know he was there? He’s _never_ there.”

“Wait… Oikawa? Tooru Oikawa?” Issei and Takahiro looked to Suga, who had paused with his pen halfway to his mouth. “That’s _your_ team?”

Takahiro bit back a smile. “Maybe one day we’ll meet someone on this campus who doesn’t know the idiot,” he said, scratching his head. “How do _you_ know him?”

“I’m a math major, we’ve had at least two classes together every semester since freshman year.” Suga chuckled. “He’s a riot in a lecture he could care less about.” Hajime’s hackles went up, but no one noticed him stiffen by the stove. “Are y’all his roommates, then?”

“Thanks to an unlucky potluck draw and homeland sentiment, yeah. Although he’s home so little you could hardly tell.” Takahiro laughed. “This is ridiculous. I swear, I bet the cleaning lady knows this idiot.”

Issei looked over his shoulder at Hajime’s hunched back. “Say, you don’t know Oikawa, too, do you? Brown hair, flippy, undercut, tall, dark, and obnoxious, wears the same dumb leather jacket all the time-”

Hajime slapped the burner off and tossed his spoon on the counter. “Food’s ready.” He stomped away to his room before they could comment, slamming the door behind him and taking a moment to breathe in, breathe out.

“ _What’s got his gravy?_ ” Suga’s muted voice said through the cheap door.

“ _Probably just some test, he gets like this during midterms_ ,” Daichi answered, which, fair. “ _Best to leave him be_.”

The conversation went back to the impending volleyball game and food outside, but inside Hajime’s dark room, the world was ending as all the unconnected assholes in his life fell together – the surprise volleyball player, the invisible roommate, the hardass TA. They were all the same person, the _asshole_ from his Romantic Literature class. He flopped on his bed and scowled into his pillow.

He refused to believe it.

* * *

He still refused to believe it sixteen hours later, when he was two pages into a five page midterm on Keats and chemists. He was writing a short answer on the setting motifs in _Frankenstein_ , but every other thought he glanced up to the back of the asshole’s head, all of the conflicting flat impressions of him convalescing into one form. He was silly and disruptive, but Tobio’s TA was vicious and over dedicated. Takahiro and Issei’s roommate was the absentee who worked too hard and slept around, but held everyone else to his brutal expectations on the court. As Suga’s friend, he was devoted enough to chew out a relative stranger for (assumedly) interfering with his sex life.

He was still an asshole. But he was an asshole with depth. And a name.

The asshole finished the exam first out of the class, but Hajime was only a beat behind. He gave Hajime a smile as he gestured for him to exit first, quick and meaningless. Hajime frowned as he passed into the hall, the door shutting behind them. The asshole gave his smarmy peace sign salute as they split to opposite stairwells. Hajime stopped a few steps away and spun to scowl at his back.

“Hey.” The asshole paused and turned, tilting his head in silent question. “Are you a physics TA?”

The asshole blinked, smile shocked off his face. “Uh – yeah, I am." He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder, smirk returning. “Why, you need homework help or something?”

Hajime shook his head. “No. Just checking something.” He tugged his hat down over his ears and shoved through the door to the outside stairwell, thoughts buzzing too much to worry what Oikawa Tooru was thinking himself.

* * *

That evening, Hajime headed over to the intramural fields behind the rec center to watch Daichi’s game. He had been the audience for a few of them so far, but he had missed enough that Daichi wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t show. Still, he liked to be there and watch Daichi’s ragtag team of freshmen and crazy people come together a little more each week, especially when they were playing friends.

He cut around the soccer games on the main field between the bus stop and the sand volleyball courts, walking behind waiting teammates and bundled up friends against the temperamental March wind. Hajime’s eyes were on the astroturf as he walked, but when he was close enough to hear Daichi’s sharp bark, he glanced up and froze by the fence.

The game had already started, and Hajime’s hypothesis was instantly confirmed with the asshole’s presence on the other side of the net from Daichi’s team’s mix of orange t-shirts that passed as uniforms. The asshole’s feet were bare, his fuzzy green earmuffs around his neck, as he hopped in place on the very back edge of the sand pit. He rolled the ball up his arm, bouncing it off his elbow to his opposite palm, not taking his eyes off of Daichi. Hajime didn’t have to be there to know that intensity, only seen in bits before, was narrowed to a point now. Hajime held his breath as the asshole tossed the ball up and took a running start, serving it into the sand hard enough for it to ricochet into the game behind Daichi’s helpless back.

The substitutes on both sides gasped and jeered as the asshole laughed, shrugging like a bitch as one of Daichi’s teammates fetched the ball and chucked it back with a lost comment. Hajime breathed again as the asshole caught the ball with one hand, flipping his hair out of his eyes and slinging his earmuffs to the grassy slope by the court.

Hajime spun around and marched back to the bus stop, heart thundering in his ears.

* * *

Hajime spent a week in irritation, mostly at his midterms but also at the back of the asshole’s head. He had beaten Daichi’s team like a drum that night, and Hajime didn’t think Daichi would ever forgive him for that. He demanded a rematch after spring break when the season was over, and even though the asshole hadn’t even been on the team until after its enrollment in the intramural league, he shook on it and told Daichi to set the date.

(It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only one who let that asshole get under his skin.)

Spring break came, and campus emptied, funneling out of the city and leaving the shells of the student body behind. Hajime trudged to and from his on-campus co-op with a research lab in the nanotech building on foot. Without the buses running, it was over a mile each way between it and his dorm, and it was always dark when he left. The ghosts of frat row had woken up by then, their ramshackle houses lit up by pity parties for the stragglers.

Thursday night, Hajime was hiking home after a long day on his feet tinkering with machinery. It was fun work, but it wore him out; all he wanted to do was crash on his bed and pass out for eight to ten hours. One of the frat houses in particular was in bigger swell than normal – it seemed like most of the left-behinds had gathered on the corner house’s elevated front porch. Hajime huffed as he passed, coat collar popped against the night chill.

What he didn’t expect was for someone to vault over the railing and the hedge below to faceplant on the grass at Hajime’s feet.

He jumped a full sidewalk-section back as three heads poked over the railing. “Yo, you okay, dude?” one of them called. The body groaned, and Hajime jumped to, falling to his knees beside it and checking the damage before he could think too hard. Nothing seemed to be broken, but there could be internal bleeding and concussions and stress fractures and loads of things that Hajime wasn’t qualified to diagnose. He heaved the guy over from his stomach to his side and – _no._

“You’ve _got_ to be shitting me,” Hajime growled as Oikawa Tooru moaned and rubbed at his face, movement drunk-toddler jerky, but no bones were poking out anywhere. Hajime looked up at the railing observers. “The fuck happened?” he yelled at them.

“He said he saw someone he knew out here and was gone before I could catch him,” the girl in the group called down, soberer than the rest. “Is that you?”

A new kind of cold rolled over Hajime. “Yeah, I guess.” He gripped the asshole’s shoulder, but stopped himself before he shook him. “Where does it hurt?” he asked, tone lowered with his head.

“Buh?” The asshole’s head rolled in the dead grass, getting brown bits stuck in it, eyes cracking open to look at his savior. He slapped his hands to his face and groaned. “ _Nooo,_ ” he moaned, petulant. Hajime snorted.

“C’mon, you big baby, sit up, it can’t be comfortable down there.” He took the asshole’s hands off his face to pull him up, first to a sit, then an unsteady stand. The asshole wobbled; Hajime caught him around the waist before he could fall into the leafless hedge. “Steady there,” he murmured, planting himself as the asshole draped his drunk ass over Hajime. He was heavier than he looked. “How are you this drunk this early?” Hajime muttered to himself in Japanese, but the asshole caught it.

“S’not that early,” he whined, also in Japanese, nuzzling into Hajime’s beard. “You smell good.”

“And you smell like tequila.” Hajime checked his observers on the railing – they were all gone except the barely-tipsy girl, who watched over her beer, smile stuck to her face. “You gonna help me?” he snapped at her.

She shrugged, backlit by the house. “You seem to have him in hand.” She dug in her skirt pocket and tossed down something that Hajime caught on reflex with his free hand – keys. “Get the poor kid home. He’s been pulling this shit every night this week, he needs a break.” She tilted her head at him. “You _are_ his friend, right?”

He shoved the asshole’s face back from his with a hand, skin burning down to his chest. “Something like that. I know where he lives, at least.”

She ducked her head, saluting with her beer. “Then I leave him to you, good sir.” She took a pull of her beer just as glass shattered behind her. She sighed and pushed off the railing, giving a last nod of her bottleneck before disappearing to handle the next emergency, leaving Hajime holding up his… rival? Stalker? Whatever, his asshole classmate. Who had attached himself to Hajime like a leech and was crooning nonsense in a slur of both their languages, peppered with “Iwa-chans” and beard nuzzles. Hajime huffed and dragged him a few meters away, out of the party sphere of influence to sit on a transformer by the bus stop. The asshole wavered on his seat, but Hajime caught his elbows, keeping him from falling on his face. Again.

“Look at me.” Tooru blinked rapidly, eyes glassy, before fixing his unsteady gaze on Hajime. “Are you okay?”

The asshole grunted. “Don’ pull this… knight ‘n shinin’ armor bullshit on _me_ , jerk.” He shoved Hajime’s chest with the tips of his fingers, wavering in and out of Hajime’s personal bubble. “Y’don’t fool me for a _second_.”

Hajime frowned. “I just asked if you were okay.” The asshole closed his eyes, nose wrinkled with his own scowl. “If you’re getting drunk this early on campus during spring break, there’s probably something going on.” Hajime rubbed up the asshole’s arms – he was only wearing an undershirt and an open short-sleeved button-up, hardly healthy in this weather. He shivered under Hajime’s touch. “I know we’re not really friends…” Tooru crossed his arms tight around his stomach, curling in. Hajime bit his cheek against another sick, cold wave, stronger this time. “Want me to take you home?” he asked, voice small for the first time in a while. Tooru nodded, hair shadowing his face. Hajime unwound his scarf from his neck and slung it around Tooru’s, covering his long throat against the chill. Tooru looked up, eyes more than glassy now. Hajime grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re a sappy drunk, too.”

Tooru’s lip wobbled, and Hajime only had a second to brace himself before he fell on him in a hug, choking out an “Iwa-chan!” as he strangled Hajime with his strong drunk grip. Hajime cursed and shoved him off only to have to catch him before he toppled off the transformer.

“Jesus, kid, you’re a wreck.” He yanked his hat off and yanked it down to cover Tooru’s ears and stupid hair. “Let’s get you home, moron.” He stepped back to let Tooru hop to his feet, chuckling when he stumbled. “Need me to carry you, _princess?_ ”

“You wish.” Hajime leant back against the bus stop signpost and waited as Tooru got his feet under him. He held his arms out for balance, glaring at his feet. “’Kay, I’m ready.”

In ten steps, he was clinging to Hajime’s arm again. Hajime didn’t comment as Tooru babbled, tuning it out as he focused on walking for two. It wasn’t until they were halfway home, past the chatter of frat row and skirting the empty football stadium, that Hajime paid attention enough to hear that the babbling was now about him.

“You’re s’pposed to be a _jerk_! You’re s’pposed to be mean to me so I stop feeling bad ‘bout how we fight so much!” He knocked his head into Hajime’s shoulder, whole body banging with it, almost sending them into one of the constant spots of campus construction. Hajime banged him back so they circled the open pit in the sidewalk. “You need to stop being _nice_ to me!”

Hajime laughed. “If this is being nice, I’d hate to see what you think I _should_ be doing.” Hajime glanced to catch his puffed-up pout, cheeks red. “I think you have a strange impression of me.”

“Nuh- _uh_ , you’re a big meanie with a sex beard an’… an’ a fuckin’ god complex.” He slapped Hajime’s chest. “And _none_ ’a your shirts fit ya.”

Hajime barked a laugh, startling Tooru into gripping his neck tighter. “ _Really?_ ”

Tooru slapped his chest again, somewhere between a punch and a pat. “They’re all too small for ya, doncha know you’ve got muscles? Suga says you’re at the gym ‘nough.”

“My clothes fit fine.” He adjusted his grip on Tooru, hitching him higher. “I have a god complex?”

“ _Duh_.” Tooru stuck his tongue out, almost licking Hajime’s cheek from how close he was leaning. “Every time you open your mouth you gotta be right all the time.”

“No I don’t. You’re just wrong a lot.” Tooru pounded his chest again – definitely a punch this time. “Stop punching me or I’ll leave you here to rot.”

Tooru ignored his second comment to hook his slapping hand’s fingers in the opening of his coat. “You’re the only one who says that, jerk, e’ryone else thinks I walk on water.”

“Then I guess I’m here to remind you that you’re not Jesus.” Hajime paused at the last street crossing before their dorm, slapping the crosswalk button. “Right now, you need to _drink_ some water.”

“Stop being _right_ ,” Tooru breathed, whistling into Hajime’s ear. Hajime shook his head, leaning away.

“Stop making out with my damn ear,” he shot back. Tooru caught his tongue in his teeth, licking his cartilage; Hajime’s stomach dropped.

“Your _ear_ , huh?”

“Don’t you even-”

Tooru jerked in and kissed his mouth, sloppy and hard. He tasted like mixed tequila and straight regret. Hajime stuck his hand in between their faces and pried him off, wiping his mouth on the back of it. “Wow, ok, you’re sure lucky you’re cute. Are you sure that wasn’t your first time?”

Tooru gasped, two of Hajime’s fingers caught in his mouth. “Oh, ‘ike you coul’ ‘o bettah!”

Hajime grinned, hooking those fingers on Tooru’s lower teeth. “Stop trying to bait me, asshole.” He let Tooru go, peeling Tooru’s limbs off him like octopus tentacles. He jerked his chin at the street. “Time to cross.”

Tooru gaped, then pouted and spun on his heel, stomping across the five lane avenue with his fists clenched at his sides. Hajime followed, licking his lips, heart pounding in a delayed reaction. What the _hell?_

Hajime caught up with Tooru at the fence to their dorm complex, where he was pushing at the locked revolving gate with a scowl and a shiny face. Hajime swiped his ID at the scanner wordlessly; Tooru stumbled as the gate gave under him. Hajime moved to help, but Tooru shrugged him off and shoved through on his own, wiping his face on Hajime’s scarf. Hajime frowned, watching Tooru’s hunched back through the bars as he wove on the open concrete expanse. Hajime jogged to grab his wrist, only to have it yanked away.

“Hey.” Tooru ignored him except to slap away the hand at his elbow. “ _Talk_ to me, dammit.”

“Make up your damn mind!” Tooru snapped as he spun on him, eyes glistening. “Are you gonna be nice to me or not?”

“What?” Hajime asked, but Tooru dove on, lost in his own angry-drunk headspace now.

“You insult me, put me down, act like I’m an _idiot_ all the time, and just when I do something _really_ stupid-” He tore Hajime’s hat off his head to snarl his hands in his hair, distressing it into a more ruffled perfection. Hajime bent to pick his hat up from the ground and stuff it in his pocket, watching Tooru’s face shift between several unattractive expressions before settling on a bit lip. “You and your eyebrow scar can go straight to hell,” he muttered. Hajime brushed the slash through his left eyebrow with two fingers as he stood, drawing Tooru’s eye.

“I never said anything about rejection, as far as I remember.” He stared Tooru and his wet face down. “I just like people to remember when I kiss them.”

Tooru gulped. “M’not _that_ drunk.”

Hajime huffed. “Sure you’re not.” He swerved around Tooru to head to their building, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Besides, you taste like shit right now.”

Tooru gasped and clambered to keep up, although he didn’t touch Hajime this time. “Do _not_! Maybe you’re just scared ‘bout kissin’ boys, is that it? Scared your delicate manliness will get bruised-”

Hajime spun and snagged the front of Tooru’s shirt, dragging him under the shelter by the door to their building. “Shut your shitty mouth already,” he growled, slamming Tooru against the brick. Tooru only had time to blink before Hajime grabbed his face and kissed him, just as hard as before, but more controlled, fingers digging into Tooru’s jaw to pry it open. Tooru gasped, and Hajime dove in – he still tasted like tequila and regret, but he was pliant under Hajime, and he finally had an answer about whether his stupid hair was as soft as it looked (it was). Tooru’s hands slid everywhere, his hair, his beard, down his back, sliding into his jeans pockets and squeezing. Hajime bit his tongue in retaliation; they broke apart, panting. Hajime knocked his forehead against Tooru’s cheek.

“Oh,” Tooru breathed. “I see why you want people to remember.”

Hajime’s hands fell from under his own scarf down Tooru's shoulders and over his torso, surprisingly thick muscles bunching under his touch. “Yeah.”

Tooru huffed, a puff of breath on Hajime’s bared neck. “Stop being _better_ at things than me.” Hajime laughed, dragging himself away until the only contact was his hands on Tooru’s waist and Tooru’s on his ass.

“If you still think that when you’re sober, maybe you’ll get a chance to try and beat me at it.” He patted Tooru’s cheek and reached back to pull Tooru’s hands out of his pockets by his wrists. “Right now, up.”

With more pouting, clinging, and a close encounter in the elevator that Hajime only kept from becoming an incident by willpower and an elbow to Tooru’s gut, they got to their floor. It wasn’t until they both exited the elevator that Tooru paused, frowning into space as he snapped his fingers. “Wait.” He rounded on Hajime. “How do _you_ know what floor I’m on?”

“Because I live here, too, dumbass.” Hajime ignored his sputtering and went to the first door by the elevator, pulling out his keys.

“ _You’re_ my RA?” Tooru shrieked behind him. Hajime smirked at the door and shook his head.

“No. That’s my roommate.” He held open the door for Tooru. “Come in, I don’t trust your dumb ass alone right now.” Tooru was too shocked to argue, floating in and plopping on the couch without a comment, mouth still dropped open. Hajime dug in the cupboard for a water bottle and filled it from the Britta pitcher in the fridge. When he turned back around, Tooru had slumped down to lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling, hair fallen back from his wide eyes, arm hanging off the side. Hajime sat on the coffee table by him (it was almost the same level of comfort) and held out the water bottle. Tooru took it without looking, missing the first few times before he snatched it and pulled open the spout with his teeth, not sitting up as he downed half of it in one go. “Feeling better yet?” Hajime asked. Tooru closed the spout by hitting it against the flats of his incisors.

“By ‘better’ you mean ‘less drunk’, sure,” he said, tone airy. “But seeing as how I just made out with my Japanese Mr. Darcy and I’m pretty sure I bruised my ass jumping into a thornbush, _hell_ no.” He blinked at the ceiling, flush rising up from Hajime’s scarf still around his neck. “’Kay, maybe I’m still a little drunk.”

Hajime grunted and patted his knee. “You’ll get over it.” He stood to take a piss and brush his teeth, leaving Tooru to face his actions. When he came back in the common room, Tooru had passed out, curled up on his side around the empty water bottle, neck bent poorly against the armrest. Hajime sighed and went to steal Daichi’s comforter and pillow.

* * *

Hajime woke up in the morning to the serenades of retching from the bathroom. He grumbled and rolled over, intending to go back to sleep, but his guilty conscience kicked in first. He growled at himself, but threw off the covers and stomped to the open bathroom door, peering in to see Tooru clutching the toilet, forehead on the cool porcelain. Hajime yawned, leaning on the door frame in just his gym shorts. “Need me to hold your hair?” he asked, voice sleep rough. Tooru flapped a hand back at him, eyes clenched against his surely awful headache. Who knew if he had been taking care of himself before Hajime got ahold of him, and according to the party caretaker, he had been binge drinking for days. Hajime watched him moaned for a moment, still out of it enough to be entranced by the rise and fall of his shoulders. He shoved off the door frame to find last night’s water bottle and refill it.

Two hours, six flushes, a spare toothbrush, two aspirin, and three water bottles later, Tooru was something like himself again – whatever that was anymore. Hajime made them both omelets and toast as Tooru huddled in his borrowed comforter at the table, nursing coffee and the remains of his headache. Hajime put his plate in front of him and sat down across the table with his own, shoveling the food in without conversation. (He had texted his co-op manager that he would be late an hour ago, but he didn’t want to push his luck too much.) Tooru picked at his, still a little green.

“Y’know.” Hajime looked up as Tooru cleared his throat and tried again. “You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Back in three thousand one.” He sipped his coffee, dark bags under his eyes, smile weak and true. “Can we… start over?”

Hajime put down his fork. “No.” He propped his chin on his hand as Tooru drooped. “But I’m okay with giving you another chance.” He held out his hand across the table. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he grunted. Tooru beamed and shook it.

“Tooru – Oikawa Tooru.” He winked. “Nice to meet you again, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime shook his head, taking his hand back to pick up his fork again. “You’re still gonna be an asshole, huh?”

“Yep!”

Hajime stuck a piece of omelet in his mouth to cover his humor, then pointed at Tooru’s plate. “Eat. It’s good for you.” Tooru ducked his head in a nod and dug in with renewed vigor. Hajime smiled.


End file.
